


The Last Verse

by almostbecamehistoric (capgal)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:04:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capgal/pseuds/almostbecamehistoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Prouvaire, better known as Jehan, is captured by the National Guard--and executed. The story of one intrepid poet who died alone on the wrong side of the barricade. (Unbeta-ed)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Verse

**Author's Note:**

> As alwys, non-betaed. I don't have a steady beta yet, I mostly just write and post.

I’m not quite sure how this happened, to be honest. One minute I was fighting with my brothers, the next I was being dragged away by at least three men. I don’t know how they got to me without getting shot themselves. I don’t know how they managed to pull me away from the barricade. But I do know that they now hold me prisoner, and that there is no way mes amis can reach me. My only hope lies in the spy we have captured—perhaps they will be willing to trade my life for his.

They shove me into a corner, and I try my best to look proud and unafraid. They are many, these soldiers, many more than our own. I do not know how mes amis will win against them. Suddenly, it is painfully clear to me just how unprepared we are. We are nothing but a handful of schoolboys with a dream and the light of a childish hope in our eyes; we cannot be anything but easy targets for the National Guard. I can see it all too clearly, their deaths; each beloved face flashes before me, the light from their eyes replaced by the glassy sheen of death. I bite down on my lip, hard, so that I will not break down sobbing.

I look at the faces of the men in front of me. They are but a few years older than me, most of them. They could easily have been my fellow students, my brothers, my friends, had the dice been rolled differently. And yet now, in their faces, I read nothing but hatred. The last feathers of hope that were left in my heart fall limply. They will kill me; they are determined to see me die. Even the offer of the life of one of their own would not sway them—and even if it would save my life, it is unlikely that the offer will be made in time. The certainty makes my legs weak, and I close my eyes and bite harder on my lip. I will not break, I tell myself. They cannot break me. 

I want to be brave and defiant, as Enjolras would be. I want to be calm and logical, as Combeferre would be. I want to be indifferent and taunting, as Grantaire would be. But I cannot, because I am not them. I am not the golden leader of a revolution, nor his right-hand, or even a skeptical drunkard. I am but a simple man who dared to dream too much, who ventured too close to the sun. But those who toy with fire end with burns--and the heat of the very sun that I tried to bring rising above the horizon is now about to burn me.

They shove my arms behind my back and bind my wrists tightly together. One of the men, the one who seems to be the leader, approaches me with a piece of cloth that he ties over my eyes. I wish I could refuse the blindfold. I wish I could spit at their feet and dare them to kill me. But I’m afraid. Oh Heavens, I am afraid. I do not want to die, especially not here, among strange and hostile faces I cannot even see. I was almost prepared for death by my brothers’ sides, watching them fight valiantly even as I fall, but this… I am not ready for this. I am not prepared to face it. I want to feel the warmth of the sun against my skin; see a violet flower sprouting between the paving stones; smell the freshness of rain on the breeze; hear the laughter of my friends in the familiar Musain; I want to live, I want to feel the simple beauties of life again. My lips tremble, and tears well up in my eyes.

It is so much easier to pretend to be brave when they cannot see the tears that are wetting the cloth over my eyes. It is so much easier to stand tall and proud when I cannot see the muskets that are pointed at my chest. It is so much easier to be defiant when they cannot see the light of fear in my eyes. So I let them blindfold me.

I hear the sound of muskets being loaded, the cold metallic clicks ringing in the silence. My legs are weak, my breath speeding by the second; the sound of my heart beating in my ears almost drowns out even the thunder-loud sound of the muskets. Oh, God. Oh, Heaven above, I do not want this. I am not ready. I cannot do this. 

I am a breath away from breaking apart when I remember that my brothers must be listening in agony. They are listening. They are watching. Even if they cannot be here, they are with me. That thought, and only that thought, stops me from falling to my knees, from begging for my life. They need me to be strong as they have been strong for me. I take one last deep breath; the air is heavy with the acrid smoke of burnt powder and the sickening stench of blood, but I imagine that it is full of the sweet scent of lilies and fresh rain instead. “Vive la France! Vive l’avenir!” It is the last thing I can say, the only gesture of defiance I am capable of; thankfully, my voice does not shake or crack. 

I hear the echoing report of a dozen guns a split second before the searing agony takes over. Oh, Mercy, it hurts. My body is thrown against a rough wall. I can only register the ringing silence that follows the shots before my mind slips. _Au revoir, mes frères. I pray you will not have to join me._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, constructive criticism, etc all always appreciated!


End file.
